Our Last Tango
by Renata Swift
Summary: Pepper Potts realizes that she needs more than a hand around her waist. And he can't give her any more than that. Oneshot.


**Hey everyone. I was a bit depressed when I wrote this story (I was in school, so that might explain it). It's not very great, but I thought that I might upload it anyway. Leave a review at the end - constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms. So anyway, here I go.**

**-NPR**

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**Our Last Tango**

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"Will that be all, sir?"

And with that, the lights switch off, and he walks into the darkness of the corridor, the arc reactor illuminating everything with an eerie glow. She turns around with a sigh, hoping that he didn't hear it, for he would recognize it for what it was.

She knew it. It was that damned blue dress.

It wasn't the first time. To hold your breath, to suck in your stomach, to try to look as dignified as possible in front of him, to display a cool facade. Impossible. In her head, her face was red, her hair was askew, her dress was crumpled…the faults went on. She criticized everything she did, bit her lip every time she thought said something stupid, fumbled with her cell phone every time he called, hoping it was _the _question – which, of course, it never turned out to be. She sincerely hoped that every time he looked at her, he saw a woman. Not just his assistant of years gone by.

But it wouldn't work, and she knew it. Hell, she knew it all. She'd planned out every possible outcome, like a six year old drawing her first wedding gown, in hopes that there would be at least one happy ending. Hopes which had been shattered ruthlessly.

And the whole idea was utter nonsense. He was known for his ways, far and wide. If she had had a dollar for every girl he'd brought home over the years, she'd probably be richer than him. Or she needn't be working for him. Stability was not a word in his dictionary, obviously. He never saw the big picture; just the half-dressed anorexic clinging on to his arms pitifully, giggling drunkenly, her messy blonde hair and big blue eyes smeared with mascara apparently overwhelmingly attractive. She would follow, being the concrete angel she's supposed to be. At the parties, the others will laugh in inebriation, drunkenly swaying and kissing each other, while she sits at the other end of the bar, because someone has to stay sober and guide them into his house, where the two apparent lovebirds would resume what had been left incomplete the night before.

She doesn't walk back to her car; instead, she takes the stairs to the roof of the mansion. The sun is slightly dipping into the sea; a few more minutes, and the stars would shine over her. Her feet are aching from walking in those damned stilettos, so she slips them off and gently places her feet on the cool concrete. Only a few months ago, he'd crashed through the roof, destroyed his expensive piano and wrecked two cars. She also recalls, not fondly, of the events that occurred thereafter. She would never be used to the idea of her boss flying around and playing 'Save The Day'. Sure, it was noble and all, but she knew he would get cocky and lose everything – including his own life.

She sits on the edge of the roof; her legs dangling, the sea a field of glittering rubies beneath her, the clouds lined sparkling silver. As a child, she'd believed in fairytales, and deeply wished that her prince would rescue her from her mediocre life and take her away. Today, that man was in front of her, within her grasp, but it was she who chose not to reach out. He was her boss, she painfully reminds herself. She shouldn't be thinking about him like that anyway, partially because he'd never think of her the same way.

And it was the thought of it happening that drove her insane. When she'd initially landed the job, she had been warned that she had done so because she had a pretty face. Then the hard work began. It was his brushing off appointments on a regular basis that had irked her the most; amazingly, he still remained the king of the corporate world. His charm and ability to smooth things over, not to mention his good looks, had won the hearts of the public and many a multi-billion dollar contract.

She'd daydreamed so much that she'd been reprimanded more than once for doing so. He'd never meant it though, and she knew it. But the Fireman's Benefit had destroyed all her chances.

The sun's rays hit her reddish-blonde hair as she massages her temples. She is so preoccupied in her own world of no happy endings that she never hears the soft footsteps behind her. She looks up only to see him drag up an old, dusty gramophone. She smiles thinly as he tries in vain to brush the dust off his suit. Hurriedly, she puts on her stilettos and tries to run down the stairs, her cheeks reddening when he grabs her and gazes at her face.

"Let's finish what we started, shall we?"

He starts up the gramophone, and soon Astor Piazzollo can be heard wafting through the sea breeze, mingling with the salty smell that lingers in the air. Her holds her by her waist, and slowly they begin to dance. They do so till the sun has finally sunk into the sea, and she pulls away from him sadly. He looks hurt; but then again, so does she.

"Why do you have to be so damn practical, Pepper?"

She says nothing, for she has nothing to say, and walks back into the house. In a few minutes, he sees her car speeding away.

He sighs, and returns to his basement for yet another sleepless night of upgrades.

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